Night
by Felandris09
Summary: Cullen and Trevelyan play.


Skyhold lies still in the grasp of late evening, covered in a rich ebony broken up by the occasional faint halo of a lantern. Only the courtyard is bearing the full moon's silver veil. Its glow has crept into the Inquisitor's quarters, casting a thin sheen of pale luminescence on either side of the wide four-poster bed.

The room is bathed in darkness save for the sparse natural light surrounding the single figure sprawled out on the mattress.

Cullen is sitting in a plush armchair facing the foot of the bed, hidden in the shadows yet close enough to watch the Inquisitor.

His eyes roam up her body, starting at her toes that he knows are painted under the thin sheen of black material, faintly recognisable as he traces the curve of her shin, then her thigh. Her legs are spread open, black stockings up beyond her knees. The corner of his mouth twitches when his eyes find what they were seeking in the twilight.

Trevelyan's left hand is resting on the soft swell of her stomach, her fingers twitching and curling in synch with the little jabs of her hips, the small gasps. At her centre, two fingers are slipping in and out with slick, appetising sounds. Cullen licks his lips.

Further up her body, her band is sitting under her breasts, lifting and pronouncing the plump handfuls, the hardened peaks pointing up at the ceiling. Below her waist sits the delicate belt that holds her garters, the perfect frame to her exposed, hairless sex that her fingers continue to penetrate.

Cullen shifts forward in his seat. He is stark naked, trying to ignore the aching, stiff erection protruding between his legs.

It's been a stressful week for both of them, packed with meetings, short trips and negotiations- a tortuous repetition of pleasantries, meals and dreaded talks. Cullen half-shakes his head, willing himself to ban the irritating images of nobles and merchants from his head to focus on the sight in front of him.

One of the few good things to come out of Orlais, he muses, has to be the lace which he senses more than sees hugging her luscious, exquisite body. Often he's happy just running his hands over her for minutes on end, exploring her curves. But not tonight- not after this week, and not in this peculiar, moody full moon. When a new movement catches his attention he is quick to act.

"A-ah," he scolds, curt and quiet. A huff sounds from the bed, and he can make out her index finger moving away from the little nubbin she'd wanted to stroke. Another twitch of his mouth as she sulks, leaving him pleased with himself. She's not getting off yet, but he's not cruel either.

"Now," he orders, "use it."

A second's stillness before she complies, fumbling until her fingers close around something.

Cullen's eyes are fixed on her as she weighs the object in her hands. It is Antivan, or so he was told- a _toy_ , carved out of dark, polished wood, with a slightly curved tip. Neither as long nor thick as its counterpart straining against his abs, he is curious to see her play with it- find just enough pleasure to leave her craving more, a reminder of her true need.

They both gasp when the tip parts her and her hips rise to meet the intrusion as the toy sinks down between her damp, swollen folds.

Her head falls back as she penetrates herself and those tasty slurps fill the room again. Cullen's breath hitches as he takes in her pose, her lustful beauty- her shoulders hunched, long hair fanning out around her; the shadowy suggestion of parted lips, and perhaps the tip of her tongue; the slight flexing of stomach muscles as she writhes, meeting her own thrusts; those pert breasts, jiggling so gently, so invitingly. Keeping his hands off himself is becoming harder, so he instructs her instead.

"Slow down." Another huff, again reluctant obedience. He smirks once more.

Cullen, of course is the Inquisition's commander, holding plenty of power over plenty of people. Every so often, however, he likes, no _needs_ , to give orders to _her_ \- the Inquisitor, their leader, the almighty Herald. And she likes taking them, enjoys giving up control, eagerly submits to his will.

He talks, she obeys. It works for them.

As her alluring play continues the pull deep in his loins grows stronger. Her movements, her moans and whimpers tug at his senses, draw him to her, and he is still resisting the ever-increasing urge to stroke himself. _Just a little_ , enough to help him withstand the sight and sound of her as she squirms, spread out for him- his and his alone to take, taste and devour.

One hand is now at her breast, pinching a taut nipple. While the image sends a bolt of greedy desire straight to his groin, he changes things around again before she gets too close.

"Stop." She remains quiet as she stills. He senses her uncertainty. "Turn around," he cannot help a smile and is certain she can't either as she gets up on all fours.

When he hears her melodic chuckle he realises a moan escaped him at the view.

She is supporting herself on one hand with her hips raised up, all but presenting her backside on a silver tray. The garters are digging into the supple flesh of her buttocks. Her legs are parted just wide enough to show off the glistening sheen of arousal coating that sweetest of openings he wants to sink into.

But for now it is the wooden plaything that glides into her once again, nice and slow. She arches her back meeting her hand as she guides it in with a low, throaty groan. It is all Cullen can do not to spill all over himself as he watches, mesmerised, how she fucks herself _from behind_ \- bold, graceful and beyond enticing.

Trevelyan is rocking backwards, left arm trembling with her weight, savouring the sweet burn as the smooth, hard wood enters her again and again. It is making the most delectably moist sounds, in perfect harmony to her unashamed, lascivious moans that she knows arouse Cullen like little else. Apart from, possibly, the sight of her shoving a wooden cock inside herself. She grins, sticks her bum out a bit more and moans louder.

The next sound catches in her throat as everything happens within a heartbeat. A chair creaks, quick feet ghost across the floor, the mattress dips and her hand is swatted away. Hot breath envelops her ear as all of a sudden he is behind her, _on_ her, and it is _his_ hand driving the toy in, hard and fast, like she's sure he wants to take her.

The pleasant burn is only intensified by his rough, laboured breathing and his tense, concentrated poise she can sense clearly though he remains hidden from her view.

After a moment's swaying into him, his voice strokes her ear. Ragged and near breaking, it adds another layer of stimulation, winding her up further towards the merciful release she so craves. "Is that good?" Two, three thrusts to support his question. A jerk of her hips is her sole answer. Then his baritone's cruel caress is back against the shell of her ear. "Or would the _Inquisitor_ like something else up that tight little quim?"

His words, the provocative snarl of her title, further stoke the flame in her, and she sighs in desperate agreement. But it's not to her commander's satisfaction. " _Would_ she?" he growls.

"Yes," she manages to hiss while pushing back against him.

"What _is_ it?" Every word stressed with a push as he coaxes the words out of her.

"You. Your cock," she whines, " _please_ , Cullen."

A quick motion and somewhere in the room a hard object hits the wall with a dull thud. The fleeting, frustrating notion of emptiness before two strong hands grasp her buttocks. Trevelyan's shocked gasp turns into a yelp when suddenly his _face_ is on her, his strong tongue lapping, slurping up her juices.

Her eyes fall closed and she might be sighing his name. But she can't be sure as her body is tingling, humming with the sensations of his wickedly skilful tongue, his fingers digging into her flesh, and those delightfully sinful sounds.

And when the heat begins to coil in her tummy he leaves her, infuriating man that he is. Her palm hits the bed in frustration, but soon he is hovering over her again, mouth right against her earlobe, tight muscles and rigid length pressing into her back.

He doesn't speak quite yet, lets her wait in uncertainty, and she knows he is savouring her longing.

Suddenly, _blissfully_ , his length is between her nether lips, sliding back and forth, the tip pressing against her aching pearl. She finds herself grinding against him, seeking his warmth, his touch, _anything_.

His other hand moves to the nape of her neck, fingers wrapping around her hair, pulling her even closer. A thin layer of sweat has formed between their bodies, creating a pleasantly warm, slippery friction.

A low, dangerous growl against her skin, the rough timbre sending a shudder of want right to her core. His words are rough, strained and entirely too seductive.

"I'm going to take you so hard you'll think of me with every footstep tomorrow." A tug at her hair, gentle but assertive. "Everywhere you go you'll be reminded of me."

"Yes," she slurs, drunk with lust, intoxicated by the perfume of their joint arousal.

The precise, strong grip of his hand on her shoulder, and she is flipped over. Before she can react her arms are pinned above her head, and he's on top of her again. There is no space between them, leaving their chests sweetly crushed as they breathe into each other.

For the first time tonight she sees his face- the robust but never hard contours outlined by the moonlight's argent radiance; the miniscule beads of sweat at his temples; those eyes, dark and deep enough to lose herself in.

His gaze lingers for a moment before his head drops to her chest as he noisily sucks her breast into his mouth and begins licking, lapping, biting.

When he pauses and their eyes meet again there is something primal, animalistic, something uniquely _masculine_ in the way he drinks her in. It makes her insides ache for him, makes her tiny bud twitch with need. Holding her stare, he runs his tongue up the underside of her right breast, slowly tracing a path across the soft flesh, circling her pebbled areola before teasing her nipple oh so expertly. His tongue circles the stiff peak while he is _still_ looking at her, and all she can do is arch her back and press into him, begging him with her body.

Never looking away from her, he sits up to straddle her right leg and rests the left on his shoulder. Immediately she feels herself opening wide, the cool night air caressing her wetness. She flinches when Cullen runs his tongue along her ankle then bites it, evoking a needy little cry from her.

Then, without further ado, he takes that beast of an erection and guides it towards her. Their eyes remain locked and her mouth falls open as slowly as he fills her, every bit of him tantalising, teasing, stimulating. The dark, bulbous head breaches her first, followed by every exquisite little inch of his length. His thick, hard girth stretches her wonderfully until the coarse patch of hair comes to rest against her.

As he slides into her to the hilt, Cullen's head rolls back and his eyes fall closed as he bites his lip with a sharp hiss. They stay still for a moment, inside each other at last, before he retreats from her depths. There's a hint of his lopsided smile before his fingers tighten their grip on her hips and – _Maker!-_ he _slams_ into her, making her cry out in surprised want.

With a second's wisdom infiltrating her lust-dazed mind, her fingers find the upper edge of the headboard. She clings on to the heavy wood as he rams back into her, and again, and again, coming good on his lewd promise as he literally pounds her into the mattress.

Damp, slippery sounds of flesh slapping, of bodies meeting fill the room, blending with the dark notes of Cullen's groans and her own wanton little enunciations; a high pitched _ah_ when he hits her sweet spot, a croaked _oh_ when she's all full of him.

Somewhere between her womb and where they're joined she can feel her climax building, _at last_. She reaches for her centre, but her hand is caught again.

A quick flick of his tongue and Cullen's moist thumb is right below her sensitive little pebble, rubbing against it in slow, tight circles. Trevelyan hisses.

The man knows her body, worships it as much as he does her. It isn't long before his ministrations have her letting go of the bed, clutching his forearms instead as warm, fluid pleasure pours from her.

Daytime stress, duties and talks all evaporate from her being as the world narrows to a raging storm of sensation, movement and Cullen.

Her nails dig into his skin as her back arches off the bed, driven by the relentless flood of pleasure erupting in her. She takes Cullen with her, leaving them bucking, moaning, floating on a powerful, all-encompassing climax.

When the waves subside and the flush sets in it is heavy breathing, slow movements and light chuckles. Cullen plops down into the mattress, pulling her close into a warm, snug embrace. Trevelyan kisses first his scar then his lips before settling against his chest, smiling as their limbs become heavy with blissful lethargy.

The light rustle of sheets and the occasional giggle are the only sounds in the room as the lovers lie in peace, only their feet duelling in playful, tickly caresses.

Eventually Cullen speaks, his voice sluggish as he combs her long tresses with his fingertips. "So what's on tomorrow's agenda then?"

Trevelyan's grin widens as she traces invisible circles around his bellybutton. "There's the morning meeting with the Antivans, then lunch with the Comte. Later we'll have afternoon tea and evening entertainment for the Val Royeaux delegation."

Cullen huffs weakly, and she knows he is rolling his eyes. "That sounds _excruciating_."

She beams. "It certainly does."


End file.
